


Secret Agent Man

by aerye



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-12
Updated: 2009-04-12
Packaged: 2017-10-02 07:41:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aerye/pseuds/aerye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Secret agents, double agents, guns, microfilm and a gay bartender.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secret Agent Man

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Brynnmck for marvelous last minute beta.
> 
> Pure unadulterated AU crackfic.

On Monday he threw Harry out. The guy gave great blowjobs but he was a lying shit and a freeloader, and Ray'd had enough of those in his life.

*

On Tuesday he got the first weird phone call, the one from the guy with the gravel voice who said if Harry didn't return what didn't belong to him he was gonna break both his legs. Ray just told the guy Harry Didn't Live Here Anymore and worked a late shift at the bar, two-for-one ladies night, and made half what Cathy did in tips, which wasn't bad considering he wasn't a dyke and didn't have any tits.

*

On Wednesday he slept late but it was his turn to open so he was there by three, washing glasses and putting together mixers, cutting up lemons and limes and sucking on cherries. They came around 4:30, two of them, and they showed him identification that proved they belonged to some super secret government organization, and then they showed him Harry's picture and asked him if he'd ever seen Harry before. He gave the photo a glance and said, "nope" without batting an eyelash. The big one took him at his word but the skinny guy, the one in the Armani suit, looked at him for a couple of seconds longer than he should've if he'd bought it. He didn't say anything, though, just looked around the club while the other guy asked him a few more questions, and then they gave him their cards and asked him to call if Harry got in touch, and left.

Harry called about seven and Ray called him a stupid asshole motherfucker and demanded to know what he'd gotten Ray into, and Harry tried his "nobody loves me, everyone hates me, I'm going out and eat worms" act but Ray wasn't particularly impressed—he'd heard it all before. He told Harry to eat shit and forget his number, and hung up on him.

Armani showed up later that night, minus the tie but still wearing the jacket, and Ray wondered if they had the phone tapped. Armani took a seat at the bar and ordered tonic water with lemon, and sipped at it while he watched Ray make Cosmopolitans and Dirty Martinis. Ray grinned to himself and waited for Armani to freak out when he realized what kind of place it was, but when Steve approached him and offered to buy him a drink, Armani accepted the drink and then a dance, and then Steve was doing his _Now, Voyager_ thing with lighting the cigarettes and Armani even went with that, although his eyes teared up a bit when he inhaled.

Armani closed the bar but Steve went home alone. Ray went home alone, too, and jerked off to an Armani ad in one of Harry's old _Details_ magazine.

*

On Thursday Ray went to the laundromat and sat there for two hours, reading a four-year-old copy of _Good Housekeeping_ while his underwear went round and round in the machine. When he pulled everything out of the dryer he found out that one of his t-shirts had bled all over his shorts, and he found some stuff of Harry's that had gotten mixed up with his. He trashed the Metallica t-shirt and the neon green thong thing that Harry had loved but Ray never thought did a thing for him, but the jeans were kinda nice and they fit, so he salvaged the loose coins from the pockets and packed them up with the rest of his stuff.

Harry called again that afternoon and said he had to see him, and Ray said no and hung up on him. Then he left for work, but when he got off the El at Halsted someone came up behind him, and grabbed his arm and shoved a gun in his back, demanding to know where Harry was. He freaked the fuck out and pulled away hard. Too hard apparently—he was off balance and falling into the street when he felt an arm around his waist, and someone yanked him out of the path of the #8 bus. When he was on his feet again he figured out it was Armani, breathing hard and gripping his arm and asking him if he was okay.

That's when they dragged him down to the police station. Someone called the bar to let Cathy know he wasn't coming in and they put him in a small room with a big mirror, and made his look at a dozen different pictures, asking, "do you know this guy? Did you ever see him with Harry Perry?" which is what it turned out Harry's real name was, not Harry Evans, although Ray could kind of see how he might want to change it. Ray didn't recognize any of the guys in the pictures—big, ugly guys, for the most part, with punched in faces. He'd never met them, or seen Harry with them, and he said so every time they asked, which was about ten different times in ten different ways. The big guy did most of the asking but Armani hung around, leaning against the wall and looking good and studying Ray's face, and at one point he asked if Ray was hungry, which he fucking was, and Armani made the big guy stop long enough for him to inhale a pastrami with slaw and pickles.

They didn't stop until around three in the morning and then Armani and Big Guy drove Ray home. They checked out his place first, room to room, poking their noses into all the closets, which made Ray grin because, y'know, symbolic or something. Big Guy came back after checking the bedroom and said everything checked out, and Armani told him to go wait in the car. Then he told Ray to lock his door, and to be careful, and not to open it to anyone but him—nobody but him, did he understand?—and that there would be a police car out front, keeping watch. Then he told Ray not to worry, and Ray laughed because, really, what the fuck was that—irony? And Ray asked what the fuck was going on and Armani said he wasn't free to say, and Ray told him to fuck off and Armani ran his hand over his face and then backed Ray up against the door and kissed him, and it was wet with a lot of tongue, and just when Ray was grooving on it something fierce Armani let go and told him to be careful again, and left.

*

On Friday, Harry turned up. Dead, trussed up like a bird and floating in the Lake They Called Michigan. Armani came and told him at the bar; he'd insisted on going into work because Ray might have stumbled into some kind of James Bond thing, complete with a secret agent man who kissed like a dream, but Friday night was a big tip night and a guy had to pay the rent. He reorganized his priorities pretty quick when Armani showed up with the news about Harry, and he didn't put up much of a fight at all when Armani mentioned taking him someplace safer.

The someplace safer was on the North Shore and Ray whistled when he first saw it—sleek and expensive and full of gadgets. Armani showed him to a room and told him he could take a shower and change while he arranged some things, and Ray practically had an orgasm when he checked out the shower with its six shower heads, and the closet, which was full of cashmere, cashmere, and oh—just for a little variety—cashmere. Ray took a long hot shower and jerked off under the spray of water, and then pulled his jeans on again. He tried on two sweaters before he decided on a black one that he thought made him look dangerous and sexy. He was pretty sure he was right—Armani stopped yelling into his cell phone when he walked back into the living room and it was a good ten seconds before he started up again, and he had to turn away from Ray before he did. Ray grinned and helped himself to a drink of twenty-year-old Scotch, and then he draped himself over a chair and waited for Armani to finish his phone call.

From what Ray could pick up, Armani was fighting with someone about him. He kept saying, "nobody's gonna know he's here" and "he's as safe here as anyplace," and finally, "it's my fucking case, my decision," before he hung up. Armani put his hands on his hips and sighed, dropping his head and shaking it, and then he turned around and looked at Ray again and, and it was like Ray could see the heat come into his eyes, some hungry thing that turned Ray inside out and set him on fire, and before he knew it he was being dragged up out of the chair and draped against the nearest wall, and Armani's hands were all over him.

There was more kissing, and it was better than what they'd done at his apartment—hotter, wetter, deeper, and Armani was doing things with his tongue, in Ray's mouth, on his throat, in his ear. Ray just held on to his shoulders, jerking his hips up against Armani and making noises in the back of his throat that might have been "god, please, please, please" if he wasn't beyond talking, way beyond talking.

Armani didn't seem to be having the same problem. Armani whispered his ear, incendiary words that slid off Armani's wet tongue, heated by his warm breath. Things like "I wanna be inside you" and "I knew the first time I laid eyes on you" and "Christ, I can't keep my hands off of you." When Ray finally found enough brains and breath to beg, "fuck me, Jesus, just fuck me," Armani peeled him off the wall and dragged him back to the bedroom.

By the time they got there, Ray wasn't sure whether he was pulling or Armani was pushing, but either way they got down on the bed and they kissed some more, and now it wasn't just the way their mouths fit together, and their tongues—it was the way everything seemed to fit, down to the way their fingers braided together above Ray's head. Ray shoved a leg between Armani's and felt the hard knot of his dick right up against him, and Armani's hand was twisting in his hair as he moaned against Ray's throat. Ray got a hand between them and worked Armani's belt open, and his trousers, and he wrapped his fingers around his dick and started to jerk him off, fingers tight and sure. Armani whispered something like "Jesus" and "fuck" and "Jesus" again, and then he was pushing Ray's hand away and rising up on his knees, stripping Ray like a candy bar and going down on him, all slick heat and tight throat.

Ray lost it then, lifted his shoulders off the bed, clenching his fists in the back of Armani's shirt and working his mouth around a moan that couldn't find its way out because Ray couldn't find enough air in his lungs to carry it. Armani was good at blowjobs; Armani _rocked_ at blowjobs; Ray gave Armani _five gold stars_ for blowjobs. It was wet and hot and tight, and he took Ray right down into his throat, and when Ray's hips started thrashing around, trying to go deeper, he just opened his mouth wider and took it.

Which was probably why Ray made such a fucked up whiny noise when suddenly Armani's mouth was gone and he was fucking his dick into thin air, and he might've had some strong words to share except Armani just stuck two fingers in his mouth long enough to get them wet, and then went back to it, and it was just as hot as before except now there was the extra added E-ticket ride of those fingers inside him, going deep, coring him.

Ray came, of course, just like any other healthy American queer boy would do in the same situation. He yelled and shoved his dick as deep as it would go and screwed himself down on Armani's fingers and everything tightened up inside him and he was gone, gonesville, quaking and panting and wondering how long they had to wait before they could do it again.

Turned out they didn't have to wait at all because Armani hadn't had his yet, and he rolled Ray over and Ray went along happily, eager to spread his legs and let Armani open him up again with those happy fingers and lots of lube, and then there was the long, sweet glide of dick into him. Armani took hours to come, fucked him slow and easy and deep, and Ray got hard again and came into his own fist and onto the bed before Armani finally gave in and let it take him, mouthing Ray's shoulders, his hips finally snapping against Ray's ass with urgency and his voice making stupid promises against Ray's ears.

*

On Saturday all hell broke loose. Ray woke up when the windows in Armani's bedroom shattered with the ten thousand bullets someone was shooting at them, and Armani was on him and dragging him off the bed, down to the floor, before he even had his eyes open. Armani shoved him back under the bed and then reached for a gun taped to the underside of the nightstand. There was another round of gunshots through the demolished window, and Ray wondered if really amazing blowjobs outweighed this kind of havoc on the relationship scale.

Armani crouched down next to him, still naked, and checked the clip to make sure it was loaded, then slammed it back in and loaded a round. It was quick, efficient, and sexy as hell, and when Armani grabbed his head and dragged him close for a kiss before he rolled to his feet and flattened himself against a wall, Ray realized he was as hard as a rock. He wondered if that was normal, or if he was just really, _really_ fucked up.

There wasn't any noise coming from outside now, not even when Armani whipped his head around the corner of the window to look, and Armani swore and started making his way in the direction of the living room instead. He stopped at the door and said something like, "stay here, don't move," and Ray was pretty sure he looked back at him like, "do I look stupid? _Hello_—people trying to kill us here."

It was quiet for a couple of minutes, which was great because gunshots were so not a good sound, but then the silence dragged on and Ray started to wonder what was happening. Whether any minute Ray would suddenly find himself looking up at two bruisers who wanted to beat the shit out of him for reasons he still didn't understand. Whether Armani was hurt. Whether Armani was dead.

And that right there fell into the "fuck that shit" category, and Ray inched his way over to his jeans and struggled into them without making too much noise, because he wasn't a secret agent man and no way was he going out there without something covering his balls. Then he got to his feet and, after throwing a nervous look in the direction of the missing window, started inching his way down the hallway. His heart was pounding in his chest so loud he couldn't hear anything else, and his chest felt tight and he hoped he wasn't breathing like a freight train, because that would sure as hell give him away. His palms were sweaty and he felt sick at his stomach and what the hell was this anyway—he was a fucking _bartender_ for Christ's sake and he didn't have a gun and he wasn't some fucking _hero_ okay?

He reached the end of the hall and flattened himself again the wall, like they always did in the movies, and he closed his eyes (which probably wasn't a good idea but fuck, he wasn't the fucking professional around here) and counted to ten, and then slowly twisted his head to look around the corner.

Shit. It was bad, as bad as it could be, because the two bruisers of his imagination had Armani by the arms, one on each side, and there was a third guy, who had a knife, who really looked like an asshole with delusions of grandeur, who kept asking questions like, "where is he," which probably meant Ray, and saying things like, "this could go very badly for, Mr. Vecchio, if you don't cooperate."

And Vecchio—son of a bitch Vecchio was standing there, looking cool and arrogant and like he wasn't even naked, and ready to take whatever these fuckers were going to dish out. Except that was probably going to leave him dead and Ray wasn't ready for Vecchio to be dead; he figured him and Vecchio still had a lot of unanswered questions between them, not to mention some questions he'd like to cover again, again and again, and maybe this time with him in the saddle.

Ray didn't have a gun but there was a vase on a table (because yeah, there's always a vase on a table), and hell, Vecchio was the secret agent man and if he couldn't turn a distraction into victory maybe Ray didn't want to know him anyway, so he picked the vase up and tossed it at the one holding the knife. It was a good clean hit right upside the head and worked pretty well at putting that fucker down, not to mention distracting the two mugs holding onto Vecchio.

Except then they decided to turn their attention to him and suddenly he was ducking and running and hiding behind a sofa, and he couldn't see anything but it wasn't quiet any more anyways—there were a lot of grunts and the sound of skin hitting skin, and a stray gunshot or two that took off some upholstery at the top of the sofa, and some snapping noises Ray really didn't want to identify.

And then silence.

And then Vecchio yelling, "Kowalski! Fuck it, Kowalski, if you're dead I'm gonna kill you," and he was behind the sofa and yanking Ray up into his arms and putting his hands all over him, checking to see if he was hurt. Ray yelled back, giving as good as he got, at least until Vecchio grabbed his head with both hands and laid a kiss on his mouth that curled his toes, and that's when Ray decided maybe some of those promises Vecchio had whispered were actually gonna come true.

** _Epilogue_ **

It turned out Harry was a double agent for Latvia, some rinky-dink country Ray had to look up on a map. Harry had double-crossed both sides, making all of his little spy friends unhappy, and and they returned the favor by making him dead.

What Harry had that everyone wanted was some kind of microfilm, which turned out to be inside a fake coin, which turned out to be one of the coins Kowalski had found in Harry's stuff at the laundry. That took a few days to figure out because, one, who thinks about spare change for crying out loud and he would have _mentioned_ it if anyone had _asked_ him, and two, Vecchio's mind wasn't quite on his job, which he blamed on Ray.

Which, okay, Ray had to take some responsibility for. After the hospital, which Vecchio had insisted upon, even though Ray didn't have any more serious than a couple of bruises, and the debrief, which was a lot more fun, because he got to spend a lot of time leaning back in his chair and spreading his legs and giving Vecchio hot looks and generally driving him insane, Vecchio took him back to his place and spread him across the mattress and they fucked five different ways from Sunday and didn't get out of bed for two days.

Still, Vecchio did eventually figure it out and apparently that was a big deal back at the old super secret headquarters, so Vecchio got a raise and a promotion (super _super_ secret agent man?). Now when Ray asks how work is going Vecchio just gives him a weird look and says things like "if I told you I'd have to kill you."

When Vecchio does that Ray figures he's taking himself too seriously and takes him to bed, and fucks him silly, or lets Vecchio fuck him silly. He's still working at the bar, because not everyone can live a life of intrigue. Cathy still makes more in tips than him on Dyke Night.

Sometimes Vecchio's work gets in the way of things, although Ray's made him promise not to bring anymore witnesses home, and so far no one's shot out the windows again, which Ray figures is a good sign. Vecchio gets quiet sometimes, and he gets hurt more than Ray likes, but Ray has figured out that he can live with that, if he has to.

After all, not everyone has their very own super secret agent man.


End file.
